


Full Circle

by Revival_Push



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anti-Hero, Blackmail, Canon-Typical Violence, Coercion, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Parent-Child Relationship, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Urban Fantasy, Witch Stiles Stilinski, Wolf Pack, fathers and sons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-03-16 07:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13631358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revival_Push/pseuds/Revival_Push
Summary: Sheriff John Stilinski has a lot on his plate. He lost his family nearly two decades ago and these days he spends his time protecting Beacon Hills from whatever monster of the week pops up. Along the way he's managed to pick up a pack of werewolves and a couple of hunters. For the most part everything is okay. Until some wolf claiming to be the Alpha of alphas shows up. And then it really isn't.Stiles is the first to admit it. He isn’t great at avoiding trouble, but this time he's way in over his head. He suddenly very alone in a city that’s feeling a lot like a prison, his magic is being twisted into something violent, and an out-of-control werewolf has him on a leash and is dragging Stiles to some small-time town called Beacon Hills. After a year of being pressed under Deucalion's thumb all Stiles really knows is that death is sure to follow.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.
> 
> Didn't like where this chapter ended off and the next began so I added some of the next chapter to the end of this one to better suit the flow of the story.

**Prologue: Loss and Learning**

As far back as he could remember it had just been the two of them, Stiles and his mom. He knows that there was some other place before, after all they had to come from  _somewhere_. The first place Stiles remembers was the parking lot of a McDonalds. He was crying and couldn’t quite remember why. He got an ice cream out of the deal though. With sprinkles.

Not long after that his mother found a little place for them in a big new city that looked like it could swallow them whole. But his mom wasn’t one to get lost in chaos, on the contrary she thrived in it. She fell in with the community like them and would take Stiles to the little magic shop owned by a tall lady with auburn braids piled high on her head who insisted Stiles call her Auntie Lo when he shyly gave a polite  _hello miss Lorena_. He took to her immediately.

They’d been in New York for four months the first time he met Jemma. She was a full year and a half older than Stiles and seemed very adult-like to him as he watched her organize a little pile of green stones on the glass counter in the middle of the store. Jemma was visiting Auntie Lo with her mom all the way from Louisiana. Most of their first encounters with each other involved Stiles watching Jemma with a sort of awe while she told him about this root and that ash. It wasn’t that the information was so interesting, but rather that she knew so much. Eventually Stiles found his voice, because if there was anything a young Stiles was good at it was talking. Jemma didn’t even seem to mind. She never told him to shut up, like some other kids did. Now Stiles suspects that Jemma just liked having a person all to herself. Someone that she didn’t have to share with her sisters. Someone who made her feel like one of a kind. Jemma came back every summer, swearing it again each August that she’d return, and no, no she wouldn’t forget Stiles.

Still, she always left. And then winter came.

And then one winter Mom was quiet. Paranoid now more than ever before. She wouldn’t go to a hospital when she got really sick, even though she knew from the start how this would end. She knew and wouldn’t tell Stiles and couldn’t save herself and Stiles was so, so scared and confused. His mother was powerful, and now she looked frail. She went to magic users of all sorts, anything, everything. But there was nothing else to do.  She died on a rainy evening in late November. Stiles was twelve. He had been in the room, but he wasn’t alone. They weren’t unprepared. Mom had a friend, a violet skinned lady with shimmery gold scales sporadically strewn across her arms and face. Her eyes were completely black, but she held the hand that wasn’t buried in his mother’s palm and her hands were soft when he brushed back his hair with her claw-like nails. He’d seen Teresa maybe twice before that day but he believed her when she told him he was going to be okay, that she would find a nice home because taking care of kids like him was what she did. From that day on Teresa was always the social worker attached to his case. After all, even dragons needed a day job.  

Teresa tended to specialize in kids like him,  _special_ , she’d call him, but another good word was  _trouble_. Magic users, non-human persons, halflings of all sorts, and many a creature had been watched over and guided into adulthood by her before. Teresa was always good about letting them grow into themselves, and for Stiles that meant learning his mother’s magic.

The first portal Stiles ever created opened in Highbridge and was attached to God-knows-where.  A brick wall some six blocks off of the Simpson street station still has the blacked scorch marks to prove it and a slightly manic looking red headed witch named Marcella that Teresa had introduced to Stiles as her  _lady friend_ was there to witness it. He was thirteen and the power he exerted made Stiles’ nose bleed and he knew he was going to miss his fosters’ curfew and they were gonna be pissed but  _holy shit_ he had done it. Sure, it would take some time to get it good enough to sell his services, but that moment was it for Stiles. Marcella had stood there, slender arms folded across her chest and a heady grin shadowed by her fizzy, unnaturally orange hair and told him that that portal was the  _start_.   

And it was. From there on Stiles had some money from portals and charms and even the occasional spellwork. Little stuff mostly, but the crap he was doing wasn’t easy and there wasn’t some Hogwarts school from his to fly off to. That wasn’t to say that there weren’t plenty of teachers. Teresa had been his gateway into their world, matched him up with people like Marcella, and she had stayed on to watch over him until the day after Stiles’ fifteenth birthday. Teresa had petted his messy hair down with her too long claws that she had neatly painted an iridescent shade of purple and told him softly that it was time for her to move on. A change of scenery.  Stiles didn’t cry when she left to continue her ageless wandering. He knew he would see Teresa again, and besides, it was impossible to feel anything but elation when the yellow envelope she left to him contained the past and present of a person Stiles could be from here on out.  _Stiles Sharpe_ , an eighteen-year-old adult hailing from Richmond, Virginia. This was his third identity, and Stiles swore then and there, his last.  

Stiles was finally free.

-=-=-=-=-

 

**Chapter 1: A Year Under the Demon Wolf’s Thumb**

**Three Years Later**

The apartment didn’t have built in air conditioning but it did have a half dozen irregularly shaped windows that let in the occasional puff of thick air. The dirty glass slides were haphazardly opened at varying levels of extension. One cottage-styled square framed a fluttery white moth that petrified just before it entered the threshold. The stunned creature fell to the outer sill and unto a small graveyard of mummified insects. There was a rhythmic thrum coming from across the street. The boy inside the apartment unconsciously bobbed his head to the beat. Earlier he had spun to a not dissimilar beat at a decidedly different local and he was feeling a little dance drunk. Maybe a little drunk-drunk too. And in want of cookies. He clanged around in the cabinet beneath the old fashioned four-burner stove, his wild brown hair brushing the underside of the cabinet. A large metal bowl spun out with a triumphant twang, followed rather abruptly by a hollow thump as it hit the cement floor. Seemingly of its own accord the bowl jittered side-to-side in time with the methodic beat of the distant music and skittered up onto the counter.  

“Brown sugar, white sugar, vanilla...Eggs. Cha-cha-cha.” The ingredients were thrown into the bowl rather violently and were joined by a considerable amount of purple glitter that fluttered from the boys hair. He liked the way it twinkled under the warm light of the hanging kitchen lamps.

The boy didn’t think to check the time. The hour wasn’t particularly relevant this late and he really wasn’t the sort to own a clock. Suffice to say that sometime between 3:00-4:00 o’clock on the dark side of a muggy mid-July morning a sixteen-year-old witch was enjoying the freedom of making noise in the absence of his flat-mates when everything went to hell.

He had his cellphone halfway to the smooshed-ear position before it rang. The snake tattoo curled around his ear gave a peculiar shimmy before inching down to his neck for safer ground.  “Greetings, you’ve reached the High Warlock of North Williamsburg. If you need to turn your arch nemesis into a toad, press one. If you were attempting to reach the High Warlock of Williamsburg, general-“

“Stiles.”

“-require emergency medical care hang up and dial 9-1-1-“

“ _Stiles.”_

“-because I’m squimish and unwilling.”

“STILES!”

He leaned over the concrete counter and pressed his thumb into a still hard butter cube. It was possible he was more drunk than he initially believed. “Yes Jemma? What do you want? You see, I wasn’t sure because you didn’t follow instructions.”

There wasn’t an immediate response, but the silence felt a bit wrong. Tense, maybe. Then, in a whisper-quiet voice, “There’s some guy asking for you at the shop.” And this wasn’t quite right at all. Jemma did not whispher anything into phones in the dead of the morning worried about  _some guy_.

Stiles wiped at a bit of his hair that had drooped onto his forehead in the heavy air and gave a deft spin to the wooden spoon hooked on his index finger. “Is this some guy asking me to kill somebody or some guy who’s going to kill me?” Stiles had known Jemma since they were kids. People came to the shop plenty looking for him. Sometimes those people were creeps.  

“Well Stiles,” Jemma’s voice lifted with a sort of intensity not natural to her, “this guy  _really_ seems to want to talk.”   

Stiles leaned the wooden spoon very gently against the metal rim of the bowl. “Are you in danger? Can you bail?” Jemma was part Feufollet, but most of her power stemmed from utilized knowledge of her practice. She wasn’t much for an in-the-moment pinch.

She seemed to hesitate before finding a response. “Can you just –can you just come down?”

Stiles exhaled. She was scared, but Stiles wasn’t. No one ever accused him of being cautious, sure, but it was for good reason. Stiles was cool shit. “Yeah, Jem. I can come down.”     

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

Stiles was cold as shit. Somehow the weather managed to churn out a couple of snowfalls before mid-November fully set it. It was turning out to be a wet, cold year. He shuffled his feet a bit and cupped a protective hand around the cigarette dangling from his peeling lips. He’d received the phone call an hour ago,  _Sternberg Park, wait for instructions_. Stiles has been standing in the sleet for 40 minutes, eyeballing the distant Starbucks he couldn’t quite see but knew was around the corner. Deucalion had a thing for parks. Before, when it was warmer, they would sometimes meet on a bench near a playground. Watch the kids, the dogs. Or Stiles did. Deucalion was blind, possibly. He certainly seemed to see a fuckton behind his tinted glasses, gliding around like a psychotic Daredevil.

Of course Park excursions were for extra special occasions. Mostly Stiles met up with some underling the size of a house with facial scars and yellow eyes Stiles liked to glare back at. Today was a special occasion. Today Stiles would not be glaring. Staring down the odd goon was as much leeway as Stiles was granted these days. They wouldn't hurt him unless Deucalion said so. There was no denying Deucalion and Stiles didn’t have anything left he was willing to lose.

Stiles kept his back to the light pole behind him despite the odd numbness that came with the cold pressure. Deucalion still managed to sneak up on him.  Stiles wasn’t surprised exactly, but still jumped half a foot in the air. The guy moved like a freaking ninja. “Stiles! What weather we’re having!” Stiles pulled the cigarette out from in between his lips in a hasty jerk to cover up the startled jump in his shoulders. Deucalion was wearing a wool pea coat and a small, private smile. Stiles gave a jerky nod but didn’t otherwise respond. Deucalion wasn’t  _really_  one for small talk, he just liked to play like he was.  Still, Stiles found his teeth clattering a bit when the bottom of his chin lifted from the relative warmth of the scarf twined about his neck. What weather indeed.

Deucalion’s shoulders were loosely held and his coat wasn’t buttoned. He wasn’t cold. It takes a lot for a wolf to feel it. As a general rule it took very little for a Stiles to. These days numb toes and a chill in his gut was the norm every time he opened his front door, weather notwithstanding. Walking in this temperature was painful and made that persistent ache on the back of his right knee stiffen tenfold. We it got like this even a human could see Stiles’ limp from a mile away.

Deucalion had given him it a month and a half into this special arrangement. Stiles had tried to run. He failed; people died. For his trouble Stiles got some wolfy magick alpha claws tearing his leg a new one. He tried everything he could think of to fix it. Human medical treatment was a bust after a certain point because of the extent of the damage and Stiles couldn’t find a way around the wound in Jemma’s shop or his own more limited ability to heal. Stiles had even worked up a tattooed scrawl to crash the wound in a spell for channeling strength in a concentrated area. No dice. He eventually gave up with the healing and settled for some pain relief in the form some of her Aunt Nettie’s nasty ass herbal concoctions. It helped. Some.

As a general rule wolves don’t wield magick effectively, but the power of an alpha like Deucalion…Well, there are always exceptions. And if nothing else Deucalion was exceptional. Right now he was causing Stiles exceptional dread. Usually these one-on-ones ended in violent magick. Bad creations that opened Stiles and everything around him to a certain foreign darkness. That, and he swears there’s a phone booth on Seneca down in Queens that’s become entirely sentient. It weighed on a person.

Deucalion kept walking right on past him as he spoke and Stiles moved in step to fall beside him. He took another drag. Deucalion’s nostrils flared but he didn’t comment. “I was impressed with your little siphoning project.”

Stiles mindfully turned his head away from Deucalion and let a long flow of smoke escaped his peeling lips, “Thanks, Duke. I try.”

That really gets Deucalion going, “I know you do, Stiles. I appreciate it.”

Stiles gives a little hum in response.

“You and I will be making a trip in a few months and I’ll need you to start making some preparations. This will be quite the challenge for you.” Deucalion gave a softly pleasured smile, “I’m sure you’ve realized by now where my interests lay, Stiles.”

Stiles cleared his throat, “You want power.”

Deucalion swung in front of Stiles, who nearly hits the ground when his right knee buckles from the sudden stop. They loose limberness of Deucalion’s movements bring up a twinge of jealousness in Stiles. He wasn’t exactly a swan before Deucalion got ahold of him, but there would always be this thing attached to him. Seventeen was a bit too young to feel this stiff. There was just no way he was going to last the year. “Not quite Stiles. I already have power.” He leans in closer, close enough that Stiles can see Deucalion’s eyes go a bit manic behind his dark sunglasses, “I want more than that. And now that you’ve had time to settle,” Strong fingers pressed along the sides of his shoulders, tightening possessively, “you’re ready to step into your role.” Stiles nodded slowly, mute and focused on the werewolf’s sightless eyes. Behind Deucalion’s black as pitch lenses his eyes were blood red.             

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

Stiles frequented Jemma’s shop weekly, browsing through this herb and those crystals and the very pricy hand painted tarot cards stacked in the glass display case at the registrar. Jemma’s family hailed from a long line of what they fondly referred to as Cajun craft. Some lore said they were fairies or witches or vampires, or maybe something in between, but Feufollet was the local name for their kind. Personally, Stiles very much liked the idea of a swamp faerie, but the actuality of Jemma’s heritage marked her more as a community healer. A woman of the forest faith. Which sure, it sounded noble, but also a lot less fun.

There was five of them, all girls. Two older and then the younger twins. It wasn’t surprising to see such gender uniformity. It was rare for a Feufollet to bear boys. Jemma used to keep a picture of them on the long oak shelf behind the counter, showcasing bright toothy smiles surrounded by dark freckled skin and dark auburn hair that hung like ropes about their shoulders. There’s a strip of dustless space where the picture used to sit. Jemma moved it when Deucalion first came. Or maybe Deucalion took it. Stiles had been afraid to ask.

Jemma doesn’t talk with him the way she used to when Stiles comes in. She keeps eyeing the place suspiciously. The other patrons are a bit more unsavory these days. Stiles feels shitty about that. Jemma’s good people. And now Stiles really, really wasn’t and here he was bringing it down on her. The worst part was she didn’t blame him. Like he was somehow the ultimate victim in this. As if he didn’t make these choices. He could say no. He could have always said no. But Stiles was afraid. Stiles was afraid of a lot these days.  

Currently Jemma was using a stone pastel to aggressively crush several stiff forewings harvested from dung beetles. Jemma set aside a small pile of the gritty powder towards Stiles so he could funnel the product into little glass jars. Some clients used them for spell work and some liked to throw it into their morning smoothies. Stiles had given it a taste once. Kinda bitter. Very chalky.

Jemma gave a particularly stern wrist rotation and the stone bowl slid a bit. “I’m thinking about moving back home.”

Stiles looked up from the paper he was wrestling back into funnel form and tucked his tongue back into his mouth. He hadn’t realized it’d been out. “Is it because of him?”

She didn’t answer.

“Is it because of me?” The inky snake etched on his skin skittered from his exposed forearm to under his sleeve.

Jemma’s lips drew thin, eyes focused on the wiggling tattoo instead of Stiles' face, “I just miss home, Stiles. And Aunt Lo is getting older. She could use some help now that the twins are getting ready to leave.”

Stiles nodded and gave her a smile, “It’d be a hell of a lot warmer.”

Jemma returned it with her own toothy grin, though it didn’t really touch her eyes, “That too.”

“But,” Stiles turned his head back to his work, “if it  _is_  about him you should know that we’re leaving.” A bit of pulverized beetle dribbled to the glass, “And I don’t think we’re coming back.”

Jemma gave up on her work entirely, head drooping until her chin nearly met her collar bone, “I’m not asking where he’s taking you Stiles. I’m just not.” Jemma was one of the truly fortunate ones. She got to grow up in a big happy family. A big happy  _alive_  family. No heart ache. No trouble. And Jemma knew it too, and she was most certainly not stupid enough to ever risk that. All the same, she did love Stiles. The young woman worried her bottom lip, the hair around her narrow face  standing a bit on end, not entirely unlike a frazzled cats’. “But you know this won’t ever be over. Not until you’re dead. This guy, Stiles, he’s fucking terrifying. He killed his pack. His  _own pack_ . Wolves don’t just do that. It’s unnatural.  _Sick._  And I know that he’s taken out others. Everyone does. And the others –the alphas he’s collected. Stiles, what the fuck is he doing?”

“I really don’t know, Jem.” Stiles lied.

Jemma’s mouth drew into a tight line. “And I really need to leave, Stiles.  _And so do you._ ” It was oddly comforting that Jemma always seemed to do and say what Stiles had expected her to.

Stiles met her eyes. “There’s no running, Jem. I’ll be fine.” He’ll be  _fucked_ . Deucalion  _knew_  him. Knew about his magic and who he’s worked for in the past and his favorite take-out. About his mom…  _It has to be you, Stiles._  That’s what Deucalion had said the night he had drunkenly raced to Jemma’s shop.  _It could have been your mother._

But Stiles’ mother was long dead. So now it was him.  

“I’m always fine.” Funny, how no one ever believed his lies.

**Five Hours Later**

Stiles was Deucalion’s bitch. The assholes’  _goons_  looked down on him. “Ya know,” Stiles gritted through chattering teeth, “once upon a time people paid me for this shit.”

Deucalion himself wasn’t present. If he had been Stiles wouldn’t so much as open his mouth uninvited, but his second and another wolf, who Stiles had secretly named Toenails and Steroids before their formal introductions, were around to babysit. Getting this done was capital “I” Important. “You know,” Kali drawled, “this shit is the only reason you get to live.” Her Hunk sized companion Ennis gave an undignified snorted. Stiles very pointedly did not respond.

Portals were pretty much the most common service clients sought from Stiles. This one was no different from any other. There was a point A and a point B and the bridge Stiles created that connected the two. What the ever living hell a wolf like Deucalion wanted in a pinprick town like  _Beacon Hills_  was beyond Stiles, and also, as Kali would put it, above his pay grade.  

Still, it felt good to use magic. Normally Stiles felt his magic as a living thing. Something tangible that danced along with him as he went through his daily life, thrumming in his body and livening up houseplants he walked by. Not so much these days. Stiles was trapped. Contained. The part of him that was his mother in him made him want to run away. The flightiness that was her nature had become his. Stiles was done growing flowers and done fighting.

Oddly, going elsewhere made him feel better. The portal was set, shimmering faintly against the brick of the alley and Stiles was burdened with a small duffel of clothes and a rather large and misshapen oatmeal colored suitcase Stiles had saw in the window of a thrift store Stiles passed one day after concluding some unspeakably odd business in Queens. Occasionally the entire case would give a little shimmy that made the two wolves eye is suspiciously. Deucalion’s lean form took shape in the distance, trademark wool pea coat littered with mushy snowflakes. Deculian’s mere presence made his skin prickle like like a gun at his neck. How it was possibly for someone as terrifying as Ducealian to look like some posh intellectual who’s idea of exercise begins and ends with a bit of jogging before brunch on the weekends was beyond Stiles.

Deculian gave a little head tilt indicating Stiles to get moving but otherwise paid him no note. Stiles gave suitcase clutched in his hand a little warning shake. It was go time.

At least it was warmer in California.    

-=-=-=-=-

 

**Chapter 2: Pieces, Minus the Puzzle**

Sheriff John Stilinski had lived in and served the people of Beacon Hills for twenty-five years and now, at the ripe old age of forty-eight going on eighty, he could just about say he’d seen it all. After all, Beacon Hills, California had a way of drawing in all sorts of crazy. Mrs. Wolowitz storming in a wrinkled house dress first thing in the morning screaming about devil-worshipping teenagers didn’t quite cover the half of it.

“Mrs. Wolowitz, I appreciate your diligence -especially with everything that’s been going on- but really, I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with here.” John had a feeling that Mrs. Wolowitz had stomped down to the department a couple times before his day, proclaiming the hysterics of demons-worshipping hooligans, missing cats turned into animal sacrifices, and neighborhood kids stealing her garden gnomes. It was before his day, but in light of everything there was a possibility all could be true.

For her part Mrs. Wolowitz didn’t look very convinced. Possibly for good reason.  “I’m telling you, that young man is in on this! It’s satanic worship, just like before!” A single hair roller was still caught in the back of her head, bouncing wildly with every zelous gesture.

John schooled his face straight as it could go.  _No no, Mrs. Wolowitz, don’t worry. It’s just some local werewolf kid burning off some energy._ How this became his life John couldn’t quite say, but my god did it keep things interesting.

John threw another half dozen reassurances out before Mrs. Wolowitz gave a sharp nod and left with the parting promise to “keep him updated”. Two years ago John would have had a bemused smile on his face. Two years ago he wouldn’t be considering the possibility that some weird looking effigies carved into a tree by the local Ralphs was anything more than a teenage prank. John dragged a single hand down to his forehead and kneaded the more than slightly weathered skin there.  

It started innocent enough. A small town with small time crime. Before eighteen months ago the worst thing that had ever happened in Beacon Hills was a teenager dying in an accident after wrapping his car around a tree some ten years ago. The day before half of Laura Hale’s shredded corpse was discovered John had spent the morning arbitrating a dispute between neighbors on Lemon street over who exactly owned the orange poppy plant caught on the dividing lines of their properties. And then everything changed.

Again.

A considerable part of John Stilinski’s lot in life was the result of a sudden change. A young woman suddenly entering his life and knocking him flat on his back. An unexpected diagnosis, and then ultimately, her sudden disappearance. He’d been younger then. Young enough to feel like his entire life was being ripped from him, from  _them_ , before it ever really got started. Ultimately, it wasn’t. His wife was there one evening, and then not the next. The sun still rose the next day and it rose the day after a destroyed and violent Derek Hale returned to Beacon Hills and again when John found a sixteen-year-old Scott McCall curled up against his staircase in his too big, too empty house, the boy covered in his own blood and a handful of claws clutched against his bare chest.  

Somehow it only got weirder and worse from there.

After the initial chaos the arrival of the Argent’s caused and the ensuing fallout of Derek Hale’s rise to power, Beacon Hills seemed to settle in on one nearly avoided disaster after the next. And Scott...It was hard not to pity the kid, though John would never say it to anyone’s face. Scott had bloomed physically, all strength and endless energy, but after the bite Scott seemed to shrink in on himself. John knew part of this was the anger Scott felt controlling him. John thought maybe Scott was afraid of turning into his father. As a kid Scott had always been soft, all kindness and quiet, timid smiles. But that Scott McCall was long gone. He was kid  in the wrong place at the wrong time, bitten by a deranged Peter Hale at 4am on a Sunday morning while Scott was stubbornly trying to run sprints in a field a mile from his own home.

And now there here, in a world where John stood behind Derek Hale as he ripped his own uncle’s throat out and the little kid he watched grow up has been turned into a resentful teenage werewolf. It was almost funny how blurred lines had become. Chris Argent was certainly no saint, and Derek Hale...Well. But the three of them have somehow managed to function more or less without killing each other, mostly because they were so busy trying not to be eaten, maimed, or sacrificed by every bump in the night creature that decided Beacon Hills was prime real estate.

Dispute all their recent history this developing situation was  _weird_. John has had six calls come in this morning alone, somehow beating even Mrs. Wolowitz to the punch. So far he’s gotten complaints of weird “glowy” carvings found on trees across town, two missing front doors, a pile of dead crows in the high school parking lot, and one missing dog. The trees and crows were a bit ominous and the missing doors just plain bizarre, but ultimately nothing has really happened. Yet.  

Even without a body count at least one of the in-the-know citizens of Beacon Hills was bound to show up in his office today.

Interestingly enough not a single one of them appeared to want him proven wrong because John could Melissa McCall leading the charge to his office the moment John’s cell phone began flashing Chris Argent’s name across the screen.    

-=-

“Isaac, for the last time, it’s not ghost.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not impossible here.” Isaac’s shoulders rung up to his ears. “Think about it, we’ve got weird glowy stuff, dead animals, a long history of awful deaths…”

Erica leaned over the back of the couch where Isaac was perched and snagged a sour cream ‘n onion Lays from a bowl Allison had set on the coffee table. “It is basically the formula to the plot of next seasons American Horror Story.”

“Yeah, but now there’s a missing person.” Scott chimed in. “What does a ghost want with a person?”

“Possession, obviously.” Erica said with a hard crunch.

Lydia found herself getting more and more agitated the longer their little group of misfit idiots went at this. “Guys, for the last time, It is  _not_  a ghost and the town isn’t haunted.”

Scott made a face, “Maybe cursed.”

“Maybe cursed,” Lydia conceded. “But if it is that’s a bigger picture issue.”

Lydia had a love-hate relationship with these little meetings. On one hand she had to admit she loved the thrill of figuring out these little puzzles. Alternatively, a part of Lydia realized in a few years she might wish that she spent her junior year of highschool game planning early college applications and obsessing over prom dresses. Instead Lydia Martin was spending the first afternoon of Winter Break on Sheriff Stilinski’s loveseat shuffling through a stack of papers that had things like  _eviscerated crows_ and  _self-aware garden hoses_  strewn all over it and trying to connect this insanity to a missing coach Finstock. A missing coach Finstock, who, for the record, might just be on a celebratory no-school bender. Or he might be in the digestive tract of the monster of the week.

Derek popped up from the little huddle he and Mr. Argent had formed on the folded chairs seated nearest to the kitchen and handed an open manilla folder to Sheriff Stilinski. “Chris and I have seen this mark before. There used to be boulders on the Reserve the packs emissaries would paint this on.”

“Dr. Deaton?” Mrs. McCall pipped up, looking not entirely pleased.

Derek gave a sharp shake on his head, “No, it was before that. Back when our Pack first came to Beacon Hills.” His eyebrows furrowed over his eyes, “I think it was a sort of an initial blessing or a special protection for new places.”

Mr. Argent nodded along, “I’ve seen this in a standard Grimoire my family had, but the book was in Gaelic, and not even the modern kind.” Mr. Argent shrugged, “No idea what it means but the file we kept said she was a witch, not a Druid. Which doesn’t really mean anything helpful for us.”

“But Druids started in Ireland, right?” Mrs. McCall pitched.

Lydia pursed her lips, “Yes, but the mythology is more expansive than that. Not to mention Gaelic isn’t necessarily one particular language. But Druids are a good start.”

Scott seemed a bit perturbed by the news, “But Druids are supposed to be the good guys.”

Mrs. McCall gave what Lydia felt was a truly well deserved snort. “We should ask Deaton about the tree symbols though.”

“I was going to swing by tonight to clean cages anyways,” Scott volunteered.

Sheriff Stilinski nodded, “Alright. But we still don’t have any leads on Finstock. And neither does my department.”

Lydia sighed, “I’ll go with Scott to talk with Deaton and do some research tonight.” She looked back to Mr. Argent and Derek who, now finished with their work, had separated so at least ten feet were between them. “Send your Druid info to the Drive?” Mr. Argent quietly affirmed. “And Derek? Whatever you have on the history of the Hale territory too. I’ll supplement with the library’s public records archive.”

Allison slipped the strap of her book bag over her shoulder, “I’ll go too. You’ll need the help getting through all that reading.”

The shared Google Drive had been Lydia’s idea. Maybe one-third of the thing was filled with research files on lore, a third on the history of Beacon Hills (a topic that Lydia was seriously considering writing a book on), and the remainder took the form of a folder stuffed with cute animal pictures from the clinic and Parks and Rec gifs that Erica had accurately labeled  _The Sanity Folder._  Mostly Scott, Erica, and Allison contributed to it, with occasional additions made by Isaac. Lydia had added a new folder labeled only by the month and year. They were still deeply entrenched in the we-really-don’t-know-what’s-going-on phase of the investigation.

Which meant they all had jobs to do.

Derek pushed up one of his sleeves to his elbow, “We’ll set patrols starting tonight around the affected areas.” Before Mrs. McCall or Sheriff Stilinski could object he added, “I’ll keep them short and random. No sense in burning out before we know what’s going on.”

By the time Lydia had closed her laptop Derek was a step out the door. She saw Sheriff Stilinski watch him go though Lydia noticed none of his betas made a move to follow him. Lydia knew It wasn’t so much that there was a problem per se. Derek had been pretty wild in a single-minded life and death be damned sort of way when he first showed up. Offering the bite to Erica, Boyd, and Isaac was a symptom of that recklessness, but in the end having Sheriff Stilinski around had helped to ground him a bit. Ground them all, really. It was still bizarre seeing Mr. Argent  and Derek actually  _functioning_  together. Lydia didn’t think either of them were ready to hear it, but they did make a good team.

Boyd said something in a soft voice that made Erica cackle darkly before grabbing the entire bowl of of Lays and plopping down next to him. It was hard to remember it sometimes, but not  _everything_  was so bad.  

Across from Lydia Sheriff Stilinski gave a frustrated murmur. “Well, looks like we have a body to work with after all.”

Scott paled a bit, “Coach Finstock?”

“No,” Lydia couldn’t think of another word to describe the look on Sheriff Stilinski’s face except  _uncomfortable_. “It’s Mrs. Janko.”

All the faces in the room looked relieved, except Erica’s who grew even more alarmed. “Wait, didn’t she totally die  _last year_?”

-=-

Mrs. Janko did in fact die last year. There was a death certificate from the hospital Melissa could confirm as well as a rather mundane  _pneumonia_ listed as the official COD. There was also an open casket funeral and a very ordinary, undisturbed grave site.

So basically everything but answers.

John couldn’t argue that the not murdered body of a person showing up wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened, but considering everything else that had occurred recently, it was the weirdest. And after getting a good look at her decomposing body John could solidly say it was also the most disturbing. Including the creepy eyeball-less and blood-drained crows.

Deputy Strauss and the new hire, Parrish, were the first to secure the scene. The dispatcher reported the caller to be an anonymous male calling from an unknown number on a call that lasted seven seconds. It wasn’t unheard of for a report to come in anonymously without any connection to the incident. Sometimes people just didn’t want to get involved. Sometimes it was nothing.

But this body didn’t unbury itself. In fact, for all appearances this body wasn’t unburied at all.

“Yeah, totally undisturbed grave sight. Crazy right?” Deputy Graeme chirped from his side.

“I’d say so. Not to mention the part where she’s missing all of her fingers. Still nothing?”

“Still no sign of those either, sir.”  

John wasn’t surprised, but he did have a feeling the coroner’s report would throw some more interesting details in the mix. It was the first thing he said when he saw the elderly woman’s remains, but something about Mrs. Janko’s jaw looked very, very wrong.

-=-

“This is  _so wrong_ .” Stiles tried not gag are the very distinct smell of boiling blood reached his nostrils. This was literally the worst thing he’d ever done. Worse than stealing or lying or that one time he kidnapped Mrs. Kinnaman’s cat for an afternoon. Possibly not worse than kidnapping an actual person, which he’s also done this week. Or trapping people Deucalion later killed. Which he’s also done this year. Or...Well it was possibly the worst thing he’s done  _today_ and he’s done some pretty shady shit lately so it counted as something.

“Shut up.” Ethan, as always, was unenthused my Stiles’ plight. Possibly he was just unenthused by Stiles, who very just knew he was being supervised so if he accidentally fucked up and the entire building collapsed on top of him or something then someone could, in theory, report back. Stiles wondered if Deculian was only willing to risk the one pack member and how exactly Ethan and Aiden had concluded Ethan got to play chicken with Stiles’ ineptitude. Maybe they drew straws? Stiles sneezed, making Ethan jump. “Be careful!”

Stiles’ nodded along, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry too much. At this point it probably couldn’t make it worse.” Strictly speaking that wasn’t entirely true. As far as Stiles could tell everything was going smoothly. Would the thing work was the real question. Based on the mini test run Stiles conducted the answer was looking to be  _yes_  and  _no_ . Stiles doesn’t know much about spellwork. It’s all very Sabrina and complicated in a disgusting sort of way and it’s not even like cooking because there just isn’t enough money in the world to get Stiles to even place a drop of this shit on his tongue. Thankfully, this spell wasn’t for eating. It was for finding. And to be fair the thing did  _find_ . It found a grave with a woman who definitely touched something or someone who touched the Nemeton. It wasn’t even a total loss because he needed fingers and teeth and stuff because that was his life now. But his life now was also finding an ancient, radioactive magick source that’s been hidden for so long even the local pack emissary thought the damn thing was a  _concept_  instead of _a thing_. And what did Stiles know? Maybe it was.

Until this radioactive bullshit came into play. The woman had totally been in contact with someone who had poked the beast. Her and the angry drunk dude Stiles kept feeding whiskey to. The angry drunk dude who didn’t appreciate any of Stiles’ considerable efforts to keep him breathing.

Angry drunk dude insisted Stiles call him “ _coach_  Finstock” and demanded to speak to his parents and then Stiles made him sleep before Ennis got it in his head to do it himself. Coach Finstock had also had contact with the Nemeton. But unlike their dead body he had done so directly.

Which was only so helpful when one, he clearly had zero idea what they were talking about, and two, he definitely wasn’t the only one in this town who could say that, and three, Stiles couldn’t find the damn thing.

Tracking wasn’t supposed to be this hard. Tracking magick shit was generally even less hard. But apparently tracking cloaked-up, magick hotspots who’s fundamental qualities include being  _unfindable except by those who know where it is_  is super fucking difficult.

What they actually needed was one of the ‘wolves.

Deucalion said  _no, go deal with this impossible thing instead, Stiles. My way or the highway._  Perhaps not in so many words, but the sentiment remained. Not to mention Deucalion's big fat hard on for Derek my-face-is-stuck-like-this Hale.

Apparently Alpha of alpha’s wanted a new toy for his collection.  

Which all brought Stiles to where he was now, reeking of vomit while hunched over a pot full of blood curds and bad intentions like some  _Charmed_ reject. It wasn’t a tracking spell exactly. More like a migicked game of telephone tag. And coach Finstock over here was probably the missing piece. Or certainly close. So Stiles could stir stir stir, maybe throw in some paprika, and then chuck it all over coach and then wait for the connection to stick. Possibly without mangling doors and gardens and roads this time. Deucalion wasn’t entirely pleased with all the attention Stiles was drawing to them. In fact, he looked down right suspicious. But honest to God Stiles wasn’t trying any funny business here. Plenty of creatures looking for trouble have entered Beacon Hills and never managed to leave. These weirdos were like those weird cave dwelling settlers who ate people that traveled near them and stole all their shit. No, thank you.

The contents of his slightly malicious brew made a little noise that sounded suspiciously like a cat-call and started producing tiny puffs of orange smoke. “Okay, we are officially in business.” Ethan gave him a little side eye but otherwise didn’t comment. Stiles had no idea the guy was dealing with the smell of it all, but noted how he practically ran through the door when Stiles reached for the floral potholders on the bench behind him. There was definitely a splatter factor here.

Stiles grunted a little trying to lift the pot, but the longer it set the more smoke puffed out and the more smoke that puffed out the lighter the contents got and Stiles needed lots of nasty blood curds and radioactive finder bits to really make this work. Mindful of his weaker leg Stiles ambled over to a semi-conscious Finstock, who looked slightly alarmed at the swaying figure teetering towards him with a giant pot of boiling gunk.

“Wait!” Finstock pleaded, “What are you doing? It’s too hot!”  

“Don’t worry,” Stiles reassured, “It’s basically dry ice.”

Of course, dry ice burns too.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a message after the ___.


	2. Part II

 

 **Chapter 3: I Said, Hey, What’s Going On? (But Really)**    
  


Danny leaned his back against the round bar table and took a measured sip of his screwdriver. It was a slow night at Jungle, but that wasn’t surprising considering it was a tuesday night. Still, there were a few guys milling around, most of which looked under twenty-five. None were as young as Danny. Strictly speaking we wasn’t supposed to even be in the club.

“You know, you really don’t look like you belong here.”

The voice immediately scratched Danny the wrong way.

“Excuse me?” Danny swiveled his head. The guy wasn’t looking at Danny but he got a good view of his profile. He was young, probably younger than Danny, and cute in a snobby twink kind of way.

“Well, sure  _here_ ,” The guy amended with a wild hand gesture as if to indicate the general vicinity, “but a guy like you in a little town like this? Mmm...”

“ _You’re_  here.” Danny reminded him. Okay, so maybe his voice rubbed at him but he did have a cute nose. And he wasn’t a regular. And it was a slow night.

“So, I’m visiting, but my grave stone is definitely going to read ‘city boy’.”

“You think about that a lot?”

“A bit, but only because I like it when people think I’m clever.” He leaned in and Danny could see the gold flecks in his honey eyes. “What do you like people to think about you?”  

Danny smiled at that. “When I’m here I generally don’t like people to think anything at all.”

The boy smiled back, a lightly manic look in his eye. “I can do that.”

-=-

Scott paced the livingroom floor of the Hale House feverishly. “SHE TOOK DANNY?”

“That’s so fucked up. It’s  _Danny_. Everybody likes Danny.” Isaac was feeding off the nervous energy in the room, his voice pitching higher with every word.

Allison’s jaw was clenched tightly, “Apparently ‘everybody’ includes homicidal witches.”

Derek ran a callus-rough hand over his head. This was bad. Since Mrs. Janko’s corpse had popped up the bodies that started showing up had gotten a lot fresher. Just this morning the shredded body of Jace Morgan had been found a few feet from his front door. Every part of his body had looked like it’d been thrown into a meat grinder. Everything but his face. Derek was still waiting on Sheriff Stilinski to hear back on the coroner’s report, but considering the state of the body he wasn’t sure it would be reasonable to expect any helpful answers. Especially since the coroner’s office had their hands so full they already contacted the surrounding counties for help managing the bodies. “We need to move fast. Lydia, do you have anything here?”

Lydia nodded, looking a bit sick. “I mean, we know it’s a witch now. Welsh and Celtic influences in the ritualistic marks on the bodies we’re finding. Well,” she amended, “except the last one. As far as we know.” Lydia swallowed, “Same things with the runes we’ve been finding on the trees and the grounds. The biggest thing is the Slavic writings carved into homes and buildings that showed up yesterday...”

Boyd blinked, “So, basically, we know nothing.”

Lydia studied the floor, “We  _know_  that it’s a witch who mostly practices Slavic influenced craft, with other influences. So probably someone who’s studied witchcraft enough to not be some amatour. We also know that they’re masking their scent, so they either knows about the werewolves or are being especially careful about the K9 Unit.”

Derek shook his head, “If it’s the dogs he’s worried about he doesn’t know about how they work. The police dogs can’t just track down a scent that’s found at a scene that their handlers can’t isolate enough to give to them specifically. They’re not  _us_.”

Lydia bit the inside of her cheek, “We don’t really have a way to know for sure. Sheriff said he was reviewing the surveillance cameras from Jungle. We really need to hear what he found to move on from here.”

Erica frowned and tucked her feet up under the grey couch Derek bought for the newly renovated living room six months ago, “You really he’ll find anything? I mean so far we basically have nothing expect a weird smell we can’t trace back to anything. This bitch is being careful.”

“Maybe,” Allison agreed, “Or maybe whoever is doing this is escalating and getting sloppy. No one found the scent until Mrs. Janko showed up. After that you guys have found it all over the place, and it’s only been getting stronger.”

“Exactly.” Lydia nodded, “Also, I’d like to point out we don’t actually know if it’s a woman. So yes, Boyd. Basically we know nothing. But this psycho is getting sloppy and vicious. One way or another we’ll catch up.”

Isaac glanced up to where Lydia stood by the fireplace, “Hopefully before Danny becomes murder victim six and someone’s grandma become unburied body four.”

Lydia turned away. Derek reassured Isaac anyway. They haven’t faced such a sophisticated creature before or else been so lost this far into an investigation but if Derek Hale knew how to do anything it was how to keep going. Like when his family was burned to ashes in their own family home and he and Laura had run and run as far as they could get to a city so big no one could find them and packs were so mixed and varied no one ever looked twice at them. And then again when Laura was murdered by Peter, so drained she was couldn’t bear to feel the death of another pack member. And Derek just kept going. Deal with Scott’s entry into his new life and Peter stalking teenage girls who could connect to the long dead and officers of the law half torn between their pity of Derek’s situation and the deep suspicion that he had murdered his own uncle and the Argent’s violence and repentance. Derek kept going. And this time he was going to keep everyone else going too.  

-=-

Derek thumbed over the ‘accept’ icon on his cell and almost immediately Sheriff Stilinski’s clipped voice pitched through the speaker in a slightly harried tone, “The suspect managed to screw with the few working cameras in the building, but we’ve got an eye-witness who said she saw a young man matching Danny’s description walk across the street with another man and then get into a confrontation with a third, also unidentified person. They moved out of her line of vision and she didn’t catch them again.” Before Derek could get a breath in the Sheriff added, “And get this, the eye-witness said the third individual had  _glowing eyes_.”

 _“Glowing eyes?_ ”

“Oh, yeah.”

From upstairs Derek could hear Isaac shoosh-ing Erica and Scott, who had been arguing over the merits moving in the packs’ entire family units into the house until the situation blew over. From the sound of it Erica was rallying. “Who’s the eye-witness?”

“Jennifer Blake. She teaches english at the highschool, no history of weird crap. If she says glowing eyes I’m willing to bite onto that and call it a lead. Not much else going.”

Derek nodded to himself. “Are you bringing her in on a follow up?”

“In an hour.”

“Good. What’s the deal with the man Danny left with?”

“No ID yet. Ms. Blake said he looked around Danny’s age, but it was dark so no way to confirm anything. We haven’t any bodies since though, so that’s something.”

“For now.” Derek said pointedly.

“Maybe not again if we’re lucky on this.”

Derek didn’t believe in luck. There was something to be said about preparing for the worst.

“Oh, and Hale? I better not see you lurking.”

“You won’t.” Derek promised.

Werewolves could be crafty like that.

-=-

Jennifer Blake was awkward and embarrassed. But she wasn’t a liar. At least, Derek knew she really and truly did believe that the night Danny Mahealani disappeared she saw him wander off with some kid a few inches taller than Danny who had dark hair and was wearing a dark t-shirt and a thick band on his wrist. A tall, slender man came up to them and there was an argument ended led to the three of them around Swallow street on 3rd and that was that.

At this point it was a godsend.  

Of course this posed some new issues.

For one, Jennifer might be a target now that she was working with the Sheriff’s Department. And then there was the issue on the second missing person who no one could identify and may or may not be involved. Not to mention that now meant there was possible evidence of multiple persons involved. Or else multiple possibly future victims to worry about.

But red glowing eyes.

Derek didn’t know much about witches, other than that he’s never cared to meet one. Lydia wasn’t sure what to make of it either. What they did know was no one was killed since Danny went missing. The coroner’s report confirmed Jace Morgan had died at least four hours before Danny was spotted with the other boy.

It was a bit of an exercise in frustration. The pack was patrolling full time during the night, which meant most of them spent the day crashed in various rooms within his house. Hardly the stress-free winter break their peers got to enjoyed. Well, stress-free minus the possibility of being mauled to death or bombarded by a flood of dead birds or waking up to find that the long standing tree in the front yard was missing.

But last night had been quiet. Derek found himself trailing by the end of Grace road where Jennifer Blake’s house was stationed. Once he even caught her peeking out her living room window. She was afraid too. He couldn’t blame her.

Part of the reason she had come forward was that Danny, along with a good chunk of the pack, were in her english class last semester. She had known the kid and now she was the last person to see him in a town that was getting a couple of dead bodies every few days for the last couple weeks.

Danny wasn’t quite pack, but he was definitely pack-adjacent. The pack takes care of their own. And Jennifer Blake coming forward with information like that had her a target for her trouble. Now the pack would look after her.

Erica looked at him knowingly.

Derek ignored her.

And then the call from a pissed-off, shouting Lydia came snapping at him about someone chasing her and maybe someone should come over  _right now_. Somewhere in the background Derek could hear Allison let out an almighty grunt and then the line went dead.

 

**Chapter 4: A Game of Who's Who, Or, Please Don't Eat Me**

“Of all the stupidest bullshit! They didn’t know who we are, or what or how many, and now look! We were avoiding them!”

Kali seemed largely unconcerned by his outburst, but that was the way of things around here. Stiles made a show of kicking an empty plastic salad bowl that had been randomly sitting on the floor this the shit hole abandoned train station. Presumably the last attendee left it there for this exact reason. Of course God knows was Deculian did to that poor bastard.

Kali glanced up from the corner where she had been studiously filing her claws. “This isn’t our first show kid. Besides,” Kali pushed away from the wall she had been leaning against and filled past Stiles, close enough it raised the hair on his arms. “This pack is pack is made up of children. The young and bitten.” Her nose furled, “And humans.”

Stiles shuffled so he revolved around Kali like an orbiting planet, “Well, it’s my first time here. I’m trying to make this gentle.” And my God, Deculian goes and has his minions attack them in their own damn home.

That managed to elicit a little laugh from Kali. “Maybe it won’t even be your last.”

Stiles failed to find some sort of odd comfort in that. For one thing, he was currently the only magic user on duty. Secondly, whatever Deculian had planned for Stiles to do for him clearly had not yet been realized. Stiles wasn't going  _anywhere_.

Yet.

Deculian didn't keep Stiles pouting for long. He strolled back into the damp ruins like he was taking a walk through anyone of the many parks he enjoyed strolling though. Perfectly normal, ever right to be here and nothing to see. What's more he came bearing a gift. 

"You broke into a hunters house to steal me a book?" Stiles blinked, "I'm flattered." 

"It's quite a special book, Stiles."

Stiles took a moment to look a little closer. It was ominously back-colored, because what else? Several artful etchings crawled along the more-than-slightly ragged corners and led to a narrow point at the bottom where a series of four circles formed a triangle. Stiles raised his brows, "Archaic Latin. Nice."

"I'm glad you think so." Deculian continued his stroll and adjusted his sleeves in a fashion a bit too formal considering their current location. "You'll be preforming one last spell for me here, but after you may keep the grimoire, Stiles. Would you like that?"

Stiles nodded. Because he did, but also because there wasn't much else to do. His fingers felt extra dry against the closed pages of the book. Clearly dismissed Stiles made his way to the little alcove he'd tentatively claimed as his own and sat down cross-legged against a rusting metal frame. Slowly he pulled apart the oddly soft pages. They felt almost furry under the pads of his fingers. Eventually Stiles found the sprig of fresh lavender Deculian had presumably been using as the page marker. 

Stiles wasn't entirely sure what to make of the mess he had found. On its face it looked almost like a sort of map to nowhere. Stiles turned the book on its side, then fully upside-down, following the odd stream of language trailing about the page. Stiles could get a grip on Classical Latin, but only with some supplemental help. This would probably not go great without a little extra assistance. And preferably not the kind one would find via Google.

Stiles gently set the book on his lap. "So, did this thing come with a reference book or what?"

As if waiting for a cue Ennis came trapezeing through the gaping wound of an entrance that served as the 'doorway'. There was a rather long series of scratches trailing down his face, which looked grumpier than usual, and a lumpy bundle cradled somewhat carefully in his arms. He set the mass down as if the blanket might explode from the pressure and back away one good yard before grumpily informing the room, "She bit me.  _Twice_."

Stiles peered a little over the cloth. Red hair snaked from the plaid blanket like wet seaweed. At first glance it appeared that a porcelain, Scottish themed doll was encased. Except this doll was breathing and maybe slightly taller than Stiles initially thought. 

"Well, shit."

-=-

 

"I'm not helping you." The girl,  _Miss Lydia Martin,_ according to Deculian and confirmed by  _Miss Lydia Martin's_  utter fury at the proclamation, was not getting with the program. Deculian is giving him a week here and would probably take a full 24 hours to just set this shit up, and they still had to translate this shit-show and kidnap kittens and and give an evil monologue or something.  

Plus the other thing. 

"You're very pretty, Lydia."

" _Excuse_  me?"

"You're very pretty. And Deculian will happily rip half your face off, seeing as its current location attached to your skull isn't required for you to translate this section. You only really need one eye."

Lydia looked a little wary, but not entirely convinced.

"Wanna see what he did to my leg?"

It turns out she did not want to see his leg, but she did want to talk.

"So what's with all the dead bodies?"

Stiles leaned a little heavier over the book. "Not really relevant here, Lydia."

Lydia, for her part, had already seemed to gather Stiles wasn't here to rip her pastel pink fingernails out of her hands and was perfectly content to capitalize on that fact. "I disagree. If this thing is all part of a bigger picture then disregarding factors that result in the ability to complete this spell might be seriously problematic to the translation."  

"Yeah, well you being told factors that result in the ability to complete this spell might be seriously problematic to your continued existence."

Lydia tossed her slightly damp hair over one shoulder, "You're not going to kill me."

"Probably not," Stiles conceded, "but I'm not going to get in the way of anyone who wants to."

Lydia seemed to believe him. "Well, after we complete this you mean. He'll just kill you too if we don't, won't he?"

Stiles turned to her and unsurprising Lydia seemed quite pleased by the thought of his demise, "Maybe. But if that happens I'm taking everyone in this town down with me."

He had six days. 

 -=-

He had four days.

The first two nights Stiles got nearly zero sleep, something Lydia didn't seem quite as able to cope with. He felt himself getting manic, worse than usual. Lydia was getting increasingly annoyed with him, but her feelings were heavily tapered by Deculian's intermittent presence in their work space, not to mention the two very alien days she'd spent living in an abandoned ruin with no clean clothes or running water. Stiles shrugged it off. New York was hardly the kind of place known for excellent quality cleanliness. Even the nicer area he'd been living in in the two years before Hurricane Deculian came rampaging into his life. 

They'd actually made some progress, largely due to yesterday evenings talk with Kali which left Lydia with two snapped fingers and a side full of claws. Stiles hadn't watched but he didn't manage to miss the way her ring and middle fingers were pointed at sharp right angles  _in the wrong direction_. Of course it could have been worse, could have been so much worse, but it was fairly apparent from the get go that Beacon Hills' residential pack wasn't a group made up of hardened warriors. 

Stiles didn't feel particularly bad about the whole thing. Lydia should have listened to him. And besides it's not like Kali hasn't broken a couple of his own bones.

But now they were both wiped. Lydia had two dried streaks of clean skin running down her face from crying last night and a dull, exhausted tint to her eyes. They were done for the night but Lydia remained seated. "Come on Lydia, you need to sleep."

Minutely she shook her head, "He's going to kill me after this."

Stiles couldn't argue with that. He couldn't imagine a scenario that didn't end with Lydia Martin's body being found stooped over the side of the road.

"Duke likes useful people. Lydia, you're so smart and clever and did such good work. Who knows? Maybe in a month you and I will be playing at monsters elsewhere."

Lydia gave him a look that could only be described as the deepest disgust, "You're a real jackass, you know that, right?"

"Oh yeah," Stiles agreed. "And a coward, too. Don't forget that."

-=-=-=-=-

 

The attack comes during the dark side on the morning of three days til. 

As far as Stiles was aware, all members of Deculian's hoard are present and accounted for, which also meant everyone sans Stiles was probably chocking up a storm on the oozy purple smoke that went from entirely not present to  _fucking everywhere_  in a hot second. Stiles and Lydia woke to the disturbance, Lydia shooting up so quickly from the metal seat of the train carriage that Stiles could have sworn someone installed a push-to-go-button on her. " _Shit!_ " Stiles reached out blindly for Lydia, who clearly was about to make a dash for it. "Are you crazy? You can't get caught up in that!"

She ripped herself from Stiles' already tentative grasp like oh yes, she very much wanted to storm into the sudden clash of murderous, pissed and blind werewolves who had favored her with a couple of broken bones 72 hours ago.  _Motherfucker_. Fine. Stiles' days chasing after crazy women was long fucking over.

Unfortunately, before Stiles' plans to duck, cover and leave Lydia to her own devices was met with fruition there was suddenly another figure in front of them. Stiles' eyes were watering, but even through the purple haze he could make out a pair of nearly demonic looking molten eyes and the glint of metal and dark hair whipping in the air around each other like a tornado. Lydia practically smashed herself into the figure, a woman, if Stiles was making out correctly. For her part the woman didn't seem alarmed until Lydia took hold of her wrist and maneuvered the sword in a jabbing motion at Stiles. He threw up his arms wildly on instinct. There was a distinctive burn across his forearm that felt like fire. 

The dark-haired girl jerked back like something bit her, " _Lydia!_ " But Lydia was gearing up to come back at him. Stiles squared up and let the pull of magick run down to his palms. He'd crunch them both into little bits like a trash compactor the moment he let go. Fuck this shit to high hell. He didn't make it this far only to be cut down by a pissed off human girl with anger issues. Stiles was here to survive. Stiles was a motherfucking wi-

-=-

 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a message after the ___.


End file.
